To Remind You
by the word crafter
Summary: The summer before Mae Mobley's eighteenth birthday, she receives a letter from a mysterious woman named Aibileen. Memories arise—and so does past resentment and grief. But what's done is done, right?
1. Living

Jackson, Mississippi, is not the hub of activity in the Southern States. Far from it. The cinema on Main Street is barely in working condition, and the only shopping market in the whole city is on the far edge of town, closer to the Riley plantation than anything else. I still like it, though. It's all I've ever known.

* * *

><p>I pulled at my collar. The sun's rays seemed to beat persistently on my family's house…even at night, it peeked about the curve of the Earth, reached in my window, and scorched me. The tight cotton-and-wool Sunday clothes didn't help any.<p>

"Mae Mobley Leefolt!"

My eyes flicked towards the door, locked, to my room. Lifting myself from my made bed, I hurried over and opened it. Rushing down the stairs, I had just seconds to smooth the front of my dress and pull up my limp stockings before my mother walked in.

"Hmph," she said. Mrs. Leefolt, as I often thought of her in my head, gazed at me critically. Although I was wearing the clothes she'd chosen for me, and had fixed up my hair in the way she always wanted me to, the tips of her mouth sagged in a disappointed frown. Never enough for Mrs. Leefolt; never enough.

"Nothing we can do about it now," she quipped haughtily. "But what Hilly will say, I just don't know…" she finished as she walked away.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. I didn't give a damn what Mrs. Hilly Holbrook thought. Mother's best friend was considered to be perhaps the most respectable housewife in Jackson, and so Hilly found herself in a comfortable enough position to look down on those who did not live up to her high expectations. Many husbands around town joked that Hilly liked to pretend she was the Supreme Court Justice, always judging other people (to the indignation and worry of their wives, who knew all too well that their friend knew everything)…but in her case, she had no legal right to.

Following Mrs. Leefolt out to the convertible, I felt a growing sense of dread. Church was hardly my cup of tea. Although I believed and prayed to God with a fierce piety that my mother deemed blasphemous (however ironic that sounded.) She'd say "That kind of devotion just ain't natural…you're hiding something from your mother and you think that the best way to keep quiet is by prayer. Believe you me, I see right through your act." And I'd put up with it. Because she was Mrs. Leefolt, and however dependent she was on Hilly Holbrook, _she was not to be crossed._

"Hurry up now, Mae Mobley, Johnny," she called. I heard my brother rushing down the front steps to catch up with us.

Johnny was mama's boy, through and through. We had a spotty relationship, marred often by our parents' disputes. He always seemed to believe that mother, however idiotic she sounded, was in the right, and papa was the evilest thing there ever was. I, on the other hand, believed papa to be my saving grace—the only thing that kept me sane in a household of crazies.

He stuck his tongue out at me. Although the main source of our mutual dislike was our parents, we had our own troubles. Johnny constantly snooped in my room, probably searching for something incriminating to report to Mrs. Leefolt. I, on the other hand, annoyed him when he had his friends over. His friends constantly stared after me as if I was the first girl they'd ever laid their young, perverted eyes on. Honestly, fourteen-year-old boys were so _prying_. Johnny didn't like their attention towards me any more than I did, but had enough sense to keep his mouth shut when they were around. Seemed to think they'd spring to my defense.

"Real smooth, Johnny," I whispered, and he scowled. I was his irritating eighteen-year-old sister, and I was milking that title for all that it was worth. He scowled back at me, and I finished the walk to mother's convertible strutting.

"Stop walking like a chicken," scolded mother, and I immediately dropped the ridiculous swagger. Johnny sniggered behind me. Mrs. Leefolt took the driver's seat, Johnny, shotgun. We were to meet papa at Jackson's First Baptist, but he was showing up less and less, a source of constant anguish for my _poor, poor mama. _Seemed that she could only take religion in moderate doses—neither extreme suited her.

* * *

><p>The ride to the church was quick—it was just up the road, and we could've walked. But Mrs. Leefolt insisted on driving about in her spanking-new car, because that's how all the other women of the city did it—and their actions were worthy of copying. Mother was a thrifty housewife—we were hardly as rich as Hilly or the bridge-group gang's high-end members…but Mrs. Leefolt found a way to flatter what we had with cheap extravagance. Her convertible was probably the only really expensive thing papa had indulged for her since the colored bathroom for the maids.<p>

We parked in front of the church. Mother spotted Hilly's car and sped off to join her, instructing me to take Johnny to the family pew. With my little brother in tow, I entered the sacred house and sat myself down, pulling Johnny to the seat next to me.

Around us, various members of the First Baptist congregation filtered in, exchanging greetings with the pastor and each other. The women were dressed in the usual skirt-suits, large, flowery hats, and a strand of pearls, their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers donning Sunday blazers and khakis.

After the initial group sat in their seats, mother unhappy to be torn from Hilly's side, Pastor French held up his hands, for silence. His eyes were closed, and his whole body swayed with what seemed like preemptive holiness.

"Welcome, my congregation," he hummed.

"Welcome, pastor," we repeated as one. Johnny coughed. I kicked him. He kicked back.

"We are gathered to celebrate God's sacred day of rest, Sunday. The Lord's day. Join me in silent prayer to thank Him for His allotment of these twenty-four hours for our exploration of our own personal spirituality."

About me, eyes closed. As mine shut and my hands placed themselves together, palm-to-palm, I noticed Mrs. Leefolt's were wide open and staring straight at the altar-piece. Whatever type of religious devotion she required from the rest of her family, she seemed not to want to take part in.

_Thank you, dear Lord, for the life you have breathed into me, and thank you for the many things you have given me. You have given me my family—my mother, unfaithful and nagging as she is, my brother, however nosy and hateful he is, and my papa, my good papa, for whom the sun shines in the day. Thank you for these gifts, and thank you for placing food on our table at night, thank you for the roof you have placed over our heads, thank you for the love I am able to feel towards my family, even when it seems most unlikely. Thank you, dear Lord. Amen. _

I opened my eyes and looked up to Pastor French. His eyes were still shut and his lips moved, forming the words of his own noiseless prayer. When they opened, I felt that the whole world had just been reborn.

* * *

><p>"Set down your hymn books, folks," called the pastor. "Our songs for this meeting are over, and so is are our Sunday church hours. You are all welcome to stay or go as you please, but I do have one last, important announcement."<p>

The church-goers who had started to shift and lift themselves from the pews set their bottoms back down on the cold wood. I could almost smell the impatience rolling off of them in waves.

"I am afraid to say that I will be leaving this congregation," said Pastor French. A ripple of conversation flowed through the group, but almost immediately, silence returned. _The pastor, leave? _I thought. _He'd leave us?_

"It's not a matter of choice," he continued, as though he had read my thoughts, "As a few of my long-time followers are aware, this was not meant to be my permanent home. I am part of a rotating parish organization, and I have long since overstayed my initial welcome in the wonderful city of Jackson, Mississippi."

Groans and cries of complaint emanated from the congregation at large.

"But rest assured, I am not leaving this faithful group in bad hands. Pastor Gerald Smith will be leading this church from now on. Next Sunday, Easter Sunday, he will preach his first sermon. I hope my absence does not incite the subsequent departures of others…I, as your pastor, merely aided in your spiritual journey. I hope that you will extent to Pastor Smith every consideration and give him your full support. He is no novice, but he is new to this church. I wholly hope that this transition will be smooth and painless. I leave you in person, but my heart remains forever planted in the great fields of Mississippi!"

Cheers and shouts erupted from the group—the sad news had been quickly processed, I thought bitterly. Was no one else upset at Pastor French's removal from our church? I noticed Hilly Holbrook grinding her teeth across the aisle—surprised, I realized that this was probably the first time we'd ever thought alike in any situation of any magnitude, especially one of this importance.

* * *

><p>"Leaving?" yelped Hilly. "Leaving Jackson First Baptist?"<p>

"Seems like it," said Mrs. Leefolt quietly.

"Damn right it seems like it!" exclaimed mother's best friend. "I can't believe that two-faced pastor has the _nerve_ to leave us behind. It's absolutely sacrilegious. I hope his license is revoked for this indecency," she huffed.

"Oh, Hilly, you don't really…"

"I do intend to make a fuss about this, Lizzy! He can't just up and leave! I'll be having a talk with the Lieutenant Governor, he'll be able to fix things up right and proper like they should," finished Hilly triumphantly.

"But this is a private church, the government doesn't control any religious sects, isn't that ri—"

"He's a man of power, Lizzy! That'll make all the difference. And you know, if Hilly Holbrook sets a mind to something…"

"She'll always get what she needs," finished mother, sighing. Sometimes I pitied her for having such an overpowering best friend. Other times I thought she well enough deserved it.

* * *

><p>My mother and Hilly have been best friends since forever. That, I can tell. It's always been the two of them, fighting for whatever Hilly has "set a mind to" most recently. The two musketeers—the little engine that could, dragging along her caboose. Needless to say, mother's the caboose. Hilly always is a bit superior with her. But they've <em>always<em> been this close—always this inseparable. Nothing, nobody, has ever gotten in their way.

At least, that's what I thought, until I got the letter.


	2. Wondering

"Mae Mobley, you sit your bottom right there and tell me what's up," said papa, patting a spot next to him on the living room couch. I hesitated before complying.

Mother and Johnny were over at Hilly's house, a trip I opted out on. Papa supported me, to my general relief, and Mrs. Leefolt seemed almost happy that I was staying here. Fewer problems, I figured, was her general outlook—Hilly always somehow managed to find something wrong with me, and I, nonverbally and inwardly, with her. It was best for the entire party if I just stayed out of it—and stay out of it I did.

"There's nothing wrong, papa," I said, leaning against his shoulder.

"That's a lie, and you know it," accused papa gently, taking my face in his hands and turning my entire head so it was directly opposite from his. I giggled. This was papa's way of gently scolding me, and it had always been like this. He joined in my laughter, chuckling throatily, his deep voice very different from my high-pitched twitter (a characteristic I myself found annoying.)

"It's nothing serious," I promised. "For real, papa, it's nothing to worry about."

"Anything that worries my daughter worries me," he insisted, and finally, I broke.

"It's just that Pastor French is leaving," I gushed, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. Already, this early in my confession, I felt like a naïve schoolgirl, a feeling I didn't like but often experience. Papa quickly set me at ease.

"Pastor French is a good man," said papa. "But he's got to move on. If he says he doesn't want to, he's telling the truth. A man like that wouldn't lie—not a man of God. And even if he weren't a religious pastor, he's honest. Pastor French is only leaving because his commitments are taking him elsewhere. We Jackson-ites are sadly left to mourn his departure." He hugged me close, and I felt the tension seep from my muscles. Papa was right, as usual. And comforting enough to make me see reason.

"Thanks, papa," I whispered into his Harvard sweatshirt. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>Even if Pastor French hadn't left, I would've, eventually. College was a few months away, and already I had begun to feel nervous. But I had always excelled in anything academic I'd ever tried, and Bryn Mawr College had accepted me with open arms.<p>

Mrs. Leefolt, on the other hand, had been less willing to let me go.

"It's a Northern college!" she'd shrieked. "A Northern college, Raleigh!"

"I went to a Northern college," he pointed out. "They're fine folks up there, just as kind and respectful as you and me."

"That doesn't change the fact that it's in _Pennsylvania_, Raleigh! It's too far away, and plus, I'm sure Mae Mobley will be much more happy to go to Ole Miss. A legacy, that's what she'd be, and a happy one at that. What do you say?" she'd finally asked, rounding on me. Her eyes glinted with fury.

"I…I couldn't say," I replied meekly, my drive draining from my bones.

"Hah!" exclaimed Mrs. Leefolt triumphantly. "Hah!"

"Oh, Elizabeth, you know she's only saying that to appease you. She wants to go to a good college, up north," papa said, rolling his eyes. "And she's damn right, Lizzy. You can't expect her to follow in your footsteps just because you've found comfort here in Jackson. What if Mae decides to do something outside of the box? What if she breaks the barriers of Southern living and makes a difference in the world? _Your _college won't help her any." He shook his paper open. I gaped at him, but shut my mouth when mother opened hers. I was ready to bet she'd be pissed.

"Ole Miss is a perfectly good college," spat mother angrily. "You damn Yankee-soft-hearted folks are willing to exchange a tried-and-true lifestyle on a damn whim. Fine! Throw it all away! But you'll regret it, Mae Mobley, and you, Raleigh, will be sorry you ever encouraged her." She turned on her heel and left.

It was a bad day whenever Mrs. Leefolt cursed—so rarely did she lose her temper so completely that I could count on one hand the times she'd gotten so out of control. Papa turned to stare at me and burst in laughter.

I was shocked, but he said, "Looks like we've won, Mae!"

He picked up my hands and we danced merrily about the living room. I was going to college, not a sorority one like mother's, but a "tried-and-true" college for academically-driven students. I would join the ranks of educated, beautiful, mysterious women, hopefully abandoning forever Jackson, Mississippi. My only regret in that respect was losing papa—otherwise, I had nothing here for me. No friends to speak of, only Hilly Holbrook, that insufferable daughter of hers, and Johnny. And mother. Did any of them count?

I was going to college. I was going to be free.

* * *

><p>"Letter for you, Elizabeth!" called papa from the front door. "And a package for me, and here's an envelope for you, Mae Mobley…must be from Bryn Mawr, can't get enough of you, can they?"<p>

Papa entered the kitchen and navigated his way through the crowd towards Mrs. Leefolt. He handed it to her and she smiled and took it. Must've been something to do with Hilly; that and bridge club were the only things that made her grin like a little schoolgirl.

He set down his small package and passed me the envelope. I wondered what it might be. Did Bryn Mawr really need to send more than a letter of acceptance? They'd included the list of supplies, and my dorm room number, and all the other forms and things I needed to sign.

But it wasn't from Bryn Mawr.

It was from a woman named Aibileen.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Mae Mobley, <em>

_I don't suppose you remember me. Not one bit. That's alright, you were young, and I wasn't around for as long as I'd have liked to stay with you. But I wanted to tell you that I remember you, and you have haunted my dreams since the very day I left you._

_ My name is Aibileen Clark. I am fifty-six years old—and old woman, older than your ma and pa, for sure. I am a writer, a mother, an aunt, and a friend. But now, most importantly, I was your mother. _

_ When you were just a little baby girl, and your mother had slid you from her womb, she was only twenty-some years old. She was too young, too foolish, too naïve to be able to raise a baby. And so she hired me to keep you alive._

_ But I did more than keep you alive. You became my baby girl, my little Mae Mobley. I got up every morning, and I raced over to pick you up, change the diapers your mama Mrs. Leefolt had neglected all night, and I hung you and sang to you and you were as much my baby as you were beautiful. _

_ I love you, Mae Mobley. I need to talk to you. To tell you why I left, and why I can't ever come back. Listen to me, Mae. I love you so much. And each day I wonder why I ever let them send me away. _

_ Just remember, Mae—you is kind. _

_ You is good. _

_ You is important._

_Love, _

_Aibee_

You is kind. You is good. You is important.

I drew in a sharp breath of air, my eyes widening. I set the letter in my lap and proceeded to breathe deeply, trying to cleanse my circulation of the terrible shock I'd just experienced.

"I hope you're not hyperventilating," said Mrs. Leefolt from the other side of the room. "Hilly's just sent me an invitation to a mother-daughter-tea-party this coming Thursday and if you're in the hospital I'll only have Johnny."

It took me a minute to find the words, and the ability, to respond. "I'm not hyperventilating, mother. They've—Bryn Mawr has sent me an expensive food plan contract," I lied. "I'm just trying to think things through."

"Hmph," said Mrs. Leefolt. "I told you that school was for no-good academics, and Hilly agrees with me. You'll end up caring more about a career than starting a family, just like Skeeter—" She stopped, and clapped a hand over her mouth dramatically. Her eyes flicked to papa, who stood frozen, briefcase in hand, about to enter the living room. They exchanged a worried glance before he gave me and Johnny goodbye kisses and went to work.

"Well, best finish up with your thinking," said mother, returning, awkwardly, to her usual self. "We're leaving for Hilly's in a few."

* * *

><p>I sat on my bed, holding the letter in my shaking hands. Aibileen Clark. Aibee. Who was she? Petunia had always been around our house…she had been with us since I was four, mother told me. And before that, I'd just always assumed mother had raised me.<p>

Now that I thought about it, that thought was ridiculous. The thought of mother lifting a finger to change my diapers was laughable—even hysterical. She'd always had Hilly to consume her time, and bridge club, that convertible Mustang of hers.

Who had raised me before Petunia arrived? Papa was at work, Johnny wasn't even born, and Hilly was…Hilly. Had this Aibileen Clark really been my mother after Mrs. Leefolt birthed me? Had she been the one to make sure I didn't drown in the tub, or get stuck in the washing machine? It seemed a much more likely theory than mother taking care of me.

But why had I never known about Aibileen? If she really had been the most important person in my life up till Petunia arrived to take care of me and Johnny, why had she just disappeared? Why had she _left me_, as she so aptly put it herself.

_And each day I wonder why I let them send me away. _

Mother and papa—that must be who she was talking about. I couldn't imagine papa firing this woman, and as for Mother, she wouldn't go against papa unless she had the support of a navy fleet behind her.

In other words, unless Hilly Holbrook took her side.

So the real question was—what did that damned Hilly have against Aibileen?


End file.
